I've been waiting in line for an eternity when a smiling man in a cowboy hat comes over and shakes my hand. "I'll be your dresser," he says, opening a bin filled with what look like heavy pieces of aluminum foil. He pulls out a jacket and a neck bib for me. Then he hands me an oxygen mask.
"OK, when I put this on, it's going to be a little stuffy until we hook you up to the oxygen hose, understand?"
I'm at the Fire Arts Festival in Oakland, California, but the columns of flame erupting in the night sky and the cackling announcer make it feel like the gates of hell – the only other place I can imagine a game called Dance Dance Immolation.
Over the past few years, the videogame Dance Dance Revolution has become a phenomenon. Featuring a pair of four-paneled dance pads and a library of uptempo rave tunes, DDR has taught thousands of otherwise ungainly geeks how to "dance" without leaving their comfort zone of the local arcade.
DDI is much the same animal – with a twist. The game's creators, the Bay Area group Interpretive Arson, hacked an open source version of DDR called StepMania, then added a 12-foot projection screen, supersize dance pads, and, just to make things interesting, nine propane jets. Screw up a dance step and you get broiled with 3,595 degrees of flaming propane.
Laden with about 15 pounds of fire-retardant gear, I waddle up to the platform alongside another participant and press a small red button. A Latin tune begins thumping.
I shuffle frantically on the pad and nail the first few steps in time to the beat, but my beginner's luck quickly wears off. Flashing words on the screen track my performance: Miss, Miss, Miss, Bad, Bad. No fire, though. I'm thinking maybe I'm good enough, and I begin to feel the rush of the first-time DDR geek – I've got the moves, baby.
Then the announcer chimes in: "Sorry about that, kindlings. It looks like the valves weren't working, but we've fixed the problem." Gulp.
The DJ chooses a remix of "Hey Mickey," the arrows begin flashing, and I start in, right on time. Good, Good, OK, OK, Great, Perfect, Perfect. At the top of the screen, a tachometer-like gauge slowly inches toward the red zone.
6, 9, 10, 11, Move, COMBO! The arrows come faster now, as if sensing my improved skill. "Oh Mickey, you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind! Hey Mickey! Hey Mickey!"
The gauge plunges deeper into the red: 20, 21, 22, COMBO! Then, suddenly, BANG! The needle snaps back and fire erupts into the sky from the top of the screen.
"Whoa, kindling 2, way to go!" screams the announcer.
I smile, but here comes a jump move – two arrows at once – then another. BANG! Blinding flash. No heat, just pure liquid light and a slight whump right in the chest. I'm staring into the core of the sun, fire streaming across my face shield.
Then it's gone, and the arrows keep fluttering up the screen. I recover, and the beat picks up. I stumble again and am awash in light, but now the heat is starting to seep in. Once more and it's getting a bit warm, but the song keeps going. I'm hit again and again, dazzled by the wall of flame each time. The heat inside the suit intensifies, but now I want the fire – it's the goal, not the penalty.
I miss the steps on purpose, jumping about wildly in the flames. Suddenly the music stops. I've been found out.
The man in the cowboy hat is quickly by my side, urging me off the platform. The adrenaline subsides as he lifts off my helmet. Sweat runs down my face, and the cool air is welcome – but I want to go back. Smiling diabolically, the man in the hat says, "Got a little warm in there, did ya?"
– Michael Reilly
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Disco Inferno
